The Cuckoo’s Call – by Ian A.

The car horn sounds, again. This time I look, parting the slats of the blind at the window of my tenth floor office. There he is waiting in the parking lot. His long, thin legs are tightly sheathed in denim, ending in black pointed boots. The white shirt is open at the neck and the double cuffs hang loose. Smoke from a cigarette swirls around his neatly drawn beard and his hair is teased into a loose quiff. He stands in his usual louche fashion. I’m getting hard just watching him. He knows I am at the window and he knows what is happening to me.
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After the Funeral – by Rachel Hogg

‘It was testicular’, Denise says.  ‘They caught it too late.  Well, he caught it too late.  I’m telling you, lads – check yourselves.  It’s important.  Promise me?’

Half promises are mumbled into half-drunk pints.  We try not to make eye contact.  Wakes are funny things.  Familiar people dressed in unfamiliar clothes.  Familiar surroundings infiltrated by unfamiliar people.  I can’t remember the last time I saw Denise in the King’s.  I’ve certainly never seen Mrs Morgan in here.  She sits, silently, at the end of the table, a tiny sherry glass pinched between her meaty fingers.  The black widow.  She’s sitting in Danny’s usual seat, so he’s squashed in next to me by the window.  Ned’s sitting in Roddy’s chair, which just looks wrong.  We sit.  No-one speaks.  I wonder if I should stick summat on the jukebox. Continue reading “After the Funeral – by Rachel Hogg”